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He seems at home out here, completely in his element. It’s a good look in dusty jeans, a T-shirt that lets the tattoo on his bicep peek out as he moves, well-worn work boots, and a ballcap that’s currently turned backward as he squats down to rally the troops.
“Okay, so out here, we’re in charge. Me, my brothers, and the Bennetts, and most of all, the scariest person you’ll ever meet in your entire life . . . Mama Louise.” Bruce gestures at each of the men standing back to offer mean mug glares and ends with the small blonde who looks like she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Mama Louise gives a smile and a wave.
A few of the boys giggle like Bruce is joking, and Mama Louise’s smile falls, turning into the best mom glare I’ve ever seen. I need her to teach me that because every boy and even a few of the adults straighten right up. I even hear Killian say “Sorry, ma’am.” She flips a switch and smiles again, like all is forgiven.
“My sister, Shayanne” —Bruce points her out to everyone— “is in charge of every animal as far as you’re concerned. You don’t so much as let one sniff you without her saying it’s okay. And remember, what’s the meanest animal out here?”
He looks around the circle, and I expect the kids to answer with something like a bull or an old horse, but they laugh instead and Cooper shouts out, “Chickens! They’ll peck your hands even as you feed them.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but all the boys seem to think it’s hilarious.
“Okay, who’s ready for a tour then?”
Twelve skinny arms shoot up, and a few parents raise their hands too. I wiggle my fingers in the air, wanting a tour even though Bruce took me on one not too long ago. How can that be? It seems like a lifetime ago, and so much has changed since the day I came stomping out here mad as a hornet, ready to rip Bruce a new one.
We walk, taking the same paths he took me on, through the smaller garden areas and then the larger fields with him telling the kids all about everything they see and life on a working farm. They listen raptly to his every word, following him like the Pied Piper. Eventually, we end up in the orchard, and Bruce plucks down a peach to show the boys how to tell when they’re ripe.
“These are the last ones of the season. The late bloomers, the ones that took just a bit longer to ripen and be ready, but you know what?” He pauses, and every eye is on him. “Just because they didn’t ripen first doesn’t mean they’re any less delicious. Each one is ready in its own time, and when that time’s right, they’re perfect—just as they are, when they are.” He takes big chomp out of the peach in his hand, the juiciness dripping down his fingers as he smiles at the sweet flavor. “Just right.”
Yes, he is.
Bruce Tannen is better with words than he thinks he is. He’s better with kids than I think he expected himself to be, too. He was this beast on the football field, and I know people anticipate certain things from him off the field too. The reality of who he is is so much deeper. I feel lucky to be one of the few people who get to see that side of him because while he used to be an open book, I know he’s been more the brooding type for quite some time. But still waters run deep when it comes to him.
A soft smile stretches my lips and Cooper takes my hand. He’s quiet, talking only to me. “I don’t think he’s just talking about peaches, Mom. You think maybe I’ll be ready one day too?”
I look down at my son, seeing the beautiful, happy boy he is to me. But I know he’s struggled. He’s smaller than the other boys and can’t cash the checks his mouth writes just yet. I tell him honestly, “I think you’re already perfect just the way you are now, honey. You’ll still grow and ripen a bit more, just like those peaches, but you’re doing so well. I love you.”
He grins for just a flash and then cringes. “Mom, don’t get mushy!” But despite his protests, I think he heard me loud and clear. The devil is in his eyes as he challenges me, “Besides, if you keep getting riper, eventually, you’ll rot!”
He runs off, but he’s dragging his left leg and his arms are outstretched in front of him like some waywardly drunk zombie. “Zombie touch!” he shouts, tagging Johnathan, who mimics the weird run.
Soon, all the boys are screaming, either to get away from the zombies or because they are one.
